The Rising Sun
by ClusiveC
Summary: A deeper look at the haunting battle of Virginia, in Ramirez's perspective. This is what you didn't see in the games. The untold tales of heroism and destruction. The Sun hasn't risen in a long, long time. Tie-in with Modern Warfare Restruction.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a short series i'm doing to tie in with my other story, Modern Warfare Restruction. I go deeper into the fight for Virginia, highlighting the things that was missed in Restruction. **

**Hope you _enjoy._**

**West Virginia. **

My left hand shook as I wiped dried blood off of my face. I balled it into a fist to make it stop, but it did little to calm me. I imagined that my eyes must have looked bloodshot from the lack of sleep, and that they were huge. Like the size of a golf ball. Or a ping pong ball. That thousand yard stare was starting to find its way into my soul. Right now, I was staring out the window of a two - story home located at the end of a street, frantically searching for any movement. Any straight line that didn't look right. If it was straight, then it was man made. If it's man made, then it could be made by the Russians. They were out there some where.

That large blue house on the left hand side of the street looked suspicious. I didn't like the way the curtains would very slightly move every other minute. I also didn't like the number of windows that lined the walls. Each one of them was an opportunity for a gunner to fill in the position. They would have fire superiority. Which would be bad. Real bad, indeed.

"Talk to me, 2-1. Gimme a sitrep." Lieutenant Jacobs sounded tired and worn. Sort of like how a person might sound after they've been through some deep, mentally challenging shit. I figured that was what it was.

"We got held up by a small force of enemy foot - mobiles, sir. We're sitting tight right now. But we're all good to go." Sgt. Foley was upstairs. In my right ear, I heard his muffled voice. In my left ear, I heard a crackle of static, and then his voice, as if he was right next to me.

"Proceed with the task, Foley. We should be leaving this part of the city by the evening." Jacobs answered. "I want to get us all out of here before the Russians burn this whole damned place to the ground."

I heard Foley speak to the _eltee _a little more, acknowledging the order passed to him. We waited. One beat. Then three. Then ten. And ten turned into 25, before we piled out of the house.

"2-1, we're moving out to the street. Keep a combat spread and keep your eyes and ears open."

It was inevitable. We would have to go sooner or later. Better we keep up with the timeline. It's not good to keep the _eltee _waiting.

_"Shit,__ we gotta go out there..." _I heard Dunn whisper from across the room. Dunn was always afraid to fight the enemy, like any normal person, but he was excellent in a firefight. The tall, dirty blonde hair guy was always moaning and complaining. But I liked him. He was smart and efficient. An above average soldier who was adapted to the front lines. It's hard to come by those.

"Ramirez, on point." Foley said as he came down the stairwell at the back of the room. The usual call. Standard procedure, for the most part. Put the private out front. When the bullets get to flying, he'll go down, instead of the guy with the experience and stripes. If you've got more than one private rolling with you, assign the newbie to the task. If you've got two who are green as grass, Inny Minny Miney Moe, catch a tiger by the toe.

I stood up cautiously, keeping a firm grip on the modified M4. By modified, I was holding an M4 with a fat ACOG scope attached to the top. Extra accuracy, extra weight. To balance it out, there was a grip on the barrel that helped keep the rifle stable when aiming. By having a grip, that automatically disabled any chance of having a grenade launcher, but grenades weren't my thing anyway. There was an attachable red laser sight to the side of the weapon, purpose built for operating at night in close quarters. Which makes sense. Fighting in a city like this one meant fighting in tight spaces. I preferred to use a SCAR, but the M4 will have to do.

I stepped onto the porch of the house and strained to see what I couldn't see. There was always the chance that I overlooked something. I kept on the pace, stepping onto a gravel drive way and crouched down slightly. I waited and I watched. Fair enough. Raising my left hand and motioning slightly, the rest of the squad left the building and got into formation. Combat spread meant wide spread.

They all followed me down the road. We clung to the sides because there was little to no cover in the street and sidewalks. Clinging to the sides meant that we had to hop over low fences and walk through bushes and step on gardens and other crap that ordinary people put into their yards. Nobody would just bust out of a window on us, because there _was_ nobody. We checked. We always had to be thorough. You only needed to slip up once. They catch you slacking with your pants down, it's over.

So far so good. We regrouped at the end of the road and took cover under a circle of high bushes. We talked about different things. This and that. Several klicks to the RV point with the _eltee. _In the time it took to talk about all that stuff, I detached the ACOG scope. It was bulky and heavy and unreliable at close range. To be honest, I should've done that from the start. The ACOG is designed to zoom in on targets that are far away. By looking through one, you'd have to close the eye that wasn't being used. By doing that, you could _only _see stuff far away. Which meant that your peripheral vision was cut off by a lot, and that's not good in battle. Back in training, the instructors never let my group practice with them. I remember when qualifying time came. The long distance shots were the easiest to me. I wasn't the best shot in the platoon, but I was damned good. The targets would go down a second after they rose. I qualified expert.

"I'm ready to kill one of those Russians again. The bastards think they can take us on..." Sandler spoke to the group. He was fierce and determined and angry at the Russians and blood thirsty. Sandler's grey eyes stood out on his darker complexion. The short red hair that framed his face was matted. He carried the big M249, which perfectly fit his style. He liked to throw more bullets than necessary, but it was effective. "I hope we find some."

"How far did you say we have?" I asked Sgt. Foley.

"2 klicks east. Not too far, not too short."

"Are we expecting company?"

"This area's still a designated hot spot. Chances are good."

"What about friendlies?"

"Everybody's at home base except for us."

"Then the convoy will leave with or without us. Which means we don't have all the time in the world."

"Exactly. The soon-"

An explosion of fireworks and bullets dominated all sound. We all instinctively dived to the ground.

"Incoming!"

"Contact front! Contact front!" someone yelled.

I gritted my teeth and crawled over to a bricked wall hidden by the bushes. I slid into them and got reasonably comfortable before I risked a peek. Dust and pieces popped off from the wall, which meant they were out front somewhere. Out front was to the east. I raised my head up a bit and tiny pieces of yellow brick hit me in the face.

The road ran across from left to right about 20 yards from the brick wall. Beyond the road was another line of bushes and vegetation. That's where they were shooting from. I could see them.

I crawled along the wall, heading to the left, to get a better angle. The sounds of battle filled my ear, all I could hear was gunshots and destruction. The brick wall was taking a pounding. Chunks of debris shrugged off of my helmet and landed all around me. I heard the response of Sandler's machine gun, rattling away at the enemy. I glanced over my shoulder to see him setting up the bipod on the M249. After a few more yards of somewhat crawling, I leaned against the wall and opened fire.

Battling at close range is much different than what most people think. It's terrifying. The sounds of war are magnified 10x. Bullets fly faster and are more dangerous. A lot more movement and locomotion took place in CQB. Fighting in America was extremely different than when I was overseas for that short time. Fighting in an actual battle is nothing like training and shooting pop up targets and playing airsoft. You can actually die, which changes everything on a _Huge _scale. And it's hard as hell to see. I didn't have a clear view of what I was shooting, but I knew the general direction to aim. I centered the sights and lightly tugged at the trigger, discharging rounds. The M4 was loud as hell. There was slight recoil, which allowed me to pump off a few more rounds.

They responded to me, and immediately opened up on my spot. The wall was hammered with bullets and was being shredded. The force of the rounds sent me into hiding down below. My heartbeat was in gear 3 and climbing fast. My mind flashed back to my brother and sister, immediately wondering how they would respond to the news of my death. They'd be beside themselves. My sister would be worse off than my brother, because my bro Joseph was a marine. But I wasn't dead. Not yet, at least.

"Roger, there's one flanking to the right!" I barely heard Sgt. Foley's voice. He sounded distant. A few seconds later, I heard Roger's weapon firing in single shot.

I stuck my head back up over the wall, risking getting it shot off. The Russians were using Ak 47's, probably the deadliest assault rifle out there. It's loud and distinct sound made it a terrible noise. I wasn't even sure if they had the ability to switch to single shot. They were pure bullet throwers. One of them was using an AK47, I could easily tell. He didn't see me.

I aimed the M4 and leveled it at his chest and lightly squeezed the trigger several times. The gun recoiled a bit, but the bullets were on the mark. Two hits, center mass. Tactical M4's like the one I was using was built more so on the job of wounding targets, rather than killing one. The bullets weren't as deadly as the AK47's the Russians used. But two shots to the chest and heart area were definitely kill shots. Blood splattered and ruptured from his body before he toppled to the ground.

It wasn't my first kill, but I still hadn't gotten used to it. I'd killed several people during my short tour in Afghanistan. Taking someone's life, no matter the circumstances, is a challenging thing. When I signed up for the military, I wanted to go to the Marines, but I figured that I'd see less action if I went to the Army. I wasn't scared of the Marines, I just didn't want to do a lot of fighting. I was wrong as hell. My first few days on the job had me in the grinder. Maybe that was because I went to Rangers. It's easy to see how someone could lose their minds after doing this for so long. I don't remember my first firefight very well although it wasn't long ago, but it was sickening and death was everywhere. Kill or be killed is the truth, and very few people who haven't seen action can truly understand that, if any. It's either you or them.

"I think they're running! Run bitches! Run!" Sandler yelled, still shooting the machine gun. I glanced at him and saw a slight smile on his face. He lived for the firefights.

"Cease fire!" Foley commanded. Everything went quiet and I gripped the handle on the M4 even harder. We all waited for a few beats, aiming and immobile. No sound. They were either all dead, or they'd gotten the hell outta there like Sandler said. Foley pointed forward and did a few more hand gestures.

"Roger, Ramirez.." Foley whispered.

Roger and I clambered over the low wall, rifles aimed and ready to shoot anything that moved. We progressed forward at a slow but steady pace, closing in on the site where the enemy had taken cover. Bushes and shrubs and branches were all tossed and thrown about. It looked like a lumber jack had gotten hold of this area for a few minutes. _Messy._

I took a quick glance at Roger. His dark black eyes were relaxed and patient, like always. Roger sported a short buzz cut and no side burns or facial hair. You couldn't have facial hair, because it would interfere with gas masks and stuff like that. His dark face was always laid back and relaxed and not worried. I liked that about him. Always cool, calm, and collective. He signaled for me to go first.

Wasting no time, I stepped forward and entered the haze of vegetation. I watched my step carefully. The damned Russians could've left a surprise. Back in Afghan, and fellow I knew had stepped on an IED and lost his leg. He was a good guy. We sure could use that soldier now.

I found a body. Four of them, clad in the reddish Russian equipment. I looked at their faces. They were young, not as young as me, but they were in their twenties. Their faces were feature less and dead and empty. Roger's voice was background noise as he called out to the rest of the squad.

I walked to the one I'd killed and knelt next to him. He couldn't have been any older than 25. I didn't hate him. He wasn't much older than me and had the same job as me. He probably liked to go fishing and playing games and drawing pictures and writing short stories, for all I knew. He probably had a girl friend back in his mother land. All of that was gone now. His entire story was over, because of a war.

I searched his body and found a small notepad with words in it. Flipping through the pages, I searched for something familiar. I couldn't read Russian. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be written in anymore. The tags around his neck were written in Russian too, but his name was written with English letters. Demitri Markovich. I laid the items back down on his chest.

"Ramirez, we're Oscar Mike. Com'mon all ready!" Dunn called out. I stood up and thought about wiping the dirt from my knees, but discarded that thought quickly. If I had been a civilian, living the normal life, I would have said a prayer or something weird like that, maybe. But there was no time to mourn and remorse in war.

We still had a ways to go before we reached the RV point. And we didn't have all the time in the world.

"On my way." I said, jogging back to meet the squad.


	2. Chapter 2

**The dodge.**

**Chapter II**

**West Virginia. _  
_**

Walking for a long distance is a slow and mostly boring process. Your mind wanders off to thoughts about random, different things. People don't really think about walking. It just becomes as common as breathing. Putting one foot in front of the other is more or less the same as breathing in and out. It gets programmed and becomes automatic. Like typing a letter on a keyboard. But I was in full gear, carrying a lot of weight on me, and moving slow and carefully and constantly scanning. Waiting for the bullet that had my name on it to sneak up on me.

There's nothing automated about that.

We went into the backyards of houses and avoided most of the main roads. There were abandoned trampolines and swimming pools and bicycles and other things. It reminded me of when I was a kid, sneaking into peoples yards and doing stupid stuff. I remember how I used to play basketball with my friends in their driveways. We used to stage tournaments and all kinds of things. I also recalled how we would have wrestling matches on trampolines, doing the moves we'd seen on TV. Sometimes, I miss those days.

I stepped over a small bicycle with training wheels on it, my eyes large and open. The bike was just a memory to the kid who owned it. A wooden fence lined the perimeter of the yard, cutting off any viewing from the outside. Sgt. Foley signaled for us to "up and over" over the fence.

Foley got his back against it and knelt down to one knee, un-equipping his rifle and putting his hands together in front of him. Roger got down beside him, his back against the wooden fence as well, and raised his rifle, covering us. Sandler went first. He stepped on Foley's hands and stuck his head over the wall, watching carefully before he went completely over. I heard a thud and "_O__w! Shit!" _as Sandler hit the ground.

I went next, the same as Sandler. I peered over the fence, and I could see the back side of a small grey house. There was a playground set and a barbecue grill laying dormant. Sandler was ready and waiting for the rest of us. I climbed over, right leg first, then the left, and hopped down. I landed smoothly, unlike Sandler.

We waited for the rest of the squad to come over. Roger had to pull Foley over.

After a beat, we proceeded on task, and Dunn took point. The sky was dark and filled with tracer rounds. Off in the distance, we could see paratroopers raining down. A wave of fear and then anger washed over me. Virginia was lost.

* * *

As we continued clearing yards and houses, we heard something. Dunn held up a tight fist. We were on the left side of a back road of a small neighborhood about 1 klick away from the RV point.

Footsteps. Lots of them. No friendlies in the area. All Hunter units at the RV. Only one possibility.

Foley signaled for us to take cover inside of a small, green, 2 - story house. The enemy troops were still a short while away, and we could hear small chit chat going on. We were lucky as hell. The people who'd lived there left the door unlocked, in a rush to evacuate the city. There was no cover outside. There was no time to waste, either. The Russians were close. It had to be at least a platoon sized number of them.

Foley pointed at the door. "Let's go!" He whispered.

We all stepped inside quietly, making as little noise as possible. Hand signals from now on. Windows lined the walls of the house, allowing anybody to easily see through. I ducked down low, beneath a small window in the kitchen, and pressed my back into the wall, getting as small as possible. Everyone else got low and quiet. Sandler was sitting on the floor of the living room, hiding behind a short couch. We were all quiet and wide - eyed and immobile.

The whole scene reminded me of playing hide and go seek when I was young. Except there would be no tagging people. There'd be no counting to 10. No A-B-C Base on me. If we got caught, they'd shoot us dead. Period.

They were outside the house. I could hear them, chatting to themselves and sounding relaxed. I held my breathe. Shadows danced on the floor, from the outside. A long line of enemy troops streaming by. My heart beat turned into a drum solo. I could feel a trickle of sweat run down the side of my head, slowly. One of the Russians had a commanding voice. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but it didn't sound good at all. It sounded like an order.

_They're searching the houses... Oh shit!_

I had to think fast, running calculations through my head at max speed.

I could tell by the angle at which the shadows were walking, that the Russians weren't facing my direction. If I made a move, they wouldn't see unless they randomly looked inside the window. The only other room I could move to was the front room, which is where the front door was. No go.

I'd have to find some place else, in case they searched the house.

The stair well inside the house was in the front room, though. I could try to get upstairs, but that would be foolish. It would be too easy to spot me from the outside. There's a slight chance I could slip by, but it was too risky. Too much movement would result in someone catching me in their peripheral vision. Which would be bad. Real bad. I couldn't go up the stairs even if I tried. I'd make too much noise if I moved fast, and I'd be too slow if I tried to be quiet. No go.

I'd have to improvise. I'd have to go back to the days of hide and go seek.

Most two - story houses like the one's in the movies usually have some random closet under the stairwell. It was my best chance. There was nothing to hide behind in the kitchen. But I needed to be fast. Sound wouldn't be too much of a problem, if I went to the closet. They were chatting freely outdoors, and the floor in the house was carpeted. But there was another snag. What if there wasn't a closet? What if I got caught? _I'll just take as many of them with me as I can, if it comes to that. _I had no choice but to go for it. If I sat in the kitchen, the Russians would see me, and I'd have to shoot 'em. Which would get the whole squad killed.

I moved. Slowly. I crouched low and hugged the wall and moved, one leg at a time. Every time I thought someone was coming close to the window, I paused. I don't really know how much good that actually does. I mean, if I was a Russian and I looked in and saw an American soldier just sitting still, I'd yell and put a bullet in him. I had no idea where the rest of the squad was, except for Sandler.

As soon as I stepped inside the front room of the house, I scanned the staircase. A short wooden door was right on the side of it, closed. I waited for a beat, making sure that no one could see me, then I moved towards the door. I twisted the knob slowly and quietly until the door opened, then I heard foot steps, as the door opened and the Russians came in.

* * *

Crouching down inside the closet, I could hear them moving outside the door, there were about three of them. Two went upstairs and the third searched the ground floor. It was dark and black inside the small, cramped closet. Not much room to maneuver. The ceiling thumped as the Russians walked around upstairs. I wondered where Foley, Roger, and Dunn were. The thumping inside my chest rumbled my entire body, and sweat began to trickle down my back and head. It was hot as hell inside the closet. _Damn._

The one that was searching downstairs called out to the other two, and a few seconds later, I heard the loud drumming as they came down the staircase. A wave of relief coursed through me. Forgetting where I was, I stood up from the floor of the closet like an idiot and hit my head on the short ceiling. Hard. The Russians heard it.

There have been many times in my life where I've done stupid things without thinking. Trying to steal a cold slice of pizza from the cafeteria at my high school in my Junior year was one of them. I'd ended up having to face some serious consequences for that. Bumping my head, hard, on that short ceiling was one of them. The Russians would come and open the door. Then all hell would break loose.

I could hear their voices, sharp and threatening. They sent one of them to go and check it out. His foot steps got louder and louder until he was right in front of the closet. A dark shadow was right under the door. I gripped my side arm and aimed it where I thought his head would be, then I began to count. Everything went into slow motion, like a scene from an action movie. I couldn't see the door knob because of the dark light, but I could hear it twisting.

It creaked open slowly, and blinding light filled my vision. I squinted my eyes tightly. The door swung wide open, and a Russian clad in reddish camouflage patterns was standing there, looking wide eyed and curious. They got even bigger when he realized what he was looking at. A deadly nightmare. I hated that stupid look on his face. I fired the side arm.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Born To Die...**_

**Chapter III**

**Lieutenant Jacobs**

Lieutenant Warren Jacobs checked the timer on his watch. 2-1 needed to hurry up. The rest of the Hunter units had set up a perimeter around the large bank that was being used as a temporary HQ. Sandbags and abandoned cars were surrounding the bank, being used for cover. A large hole on the top floor of the building was the designated crow's nest. A heavy weapons team was posted up there, sporting the infamous FGM - 148's and a few AT-4's.

The FGM Javelins were designed for use against armored vehicles and buildings. The primary firing mode was the next - gen aerial attack design. The rocket went high up and came down on top of its target to hit in the soft spot where the armor was the weakest. It could also be used in the traditional standard mode, shooting in a straight line to its target. The AT-4's were the fire and forget launchers. You shoot it and dispose of it. A light and efficient, Sweden - built weapon being used by the US Army Rangers.

Lt. Jacobs was in the C&C room of the bank, carefully scanning a map of the area. Hunter 2-1 should be close by now. The main roads would lead them straight to the rendezvous. But Jacobs knew Foley, and knew that they would never use those roads. Too open. Too risky. Sgt. Foley didn't like to take the fast and dangerous route. Therefore, Jacobs surmised that 2-1 must've used the slower back roads of the city.

The last report had them located at a dead end street, roughly 2 and a half klicks away. Border Street, to be precise. If Foley used those quieter, unpopular back-ways and neighborhoods, the obvious route to take would be Downer Creek. There were random turns and twists and houses everywhere in that piece of the city. It was slow but less dangerous. Less chance of an American team operating there. Which, ironically, would trigger the Russians to search that place better than the main roads. Which meant that 2-1 could've ran into some resistance. A lot of it. Which, in turn, lead Jacobs to think that Foley would have stayed quiet and anonymous. Avoiding any contact what so ever. They would have tried to sneak like some type of black ops team. That would explain why Jacobs wasn't getting any report from Foley.

Either that, or 2-1 had been wiped out. They could be dodging a patrol right now. So should he hit 'em up on the radio?

He didn't like the look of the situation, at all. Jacobs tapped his earpiece.

"Foley, report. What's your status?" He peered at the cracked wall on the opposite side of the room, waiting for a response. He counted to 5. Then to 10.

"We're in..." Gunshots and explosions overpowered his voice " - By a big group of them!" Foley was breathing heavily. "We're comin' in hot from the east, about a half klick away!"

"I hear you Foley. Keep it up! Don't let them catch you. We're ready and waiting!" Jacobs told him.

"Nice to hear, sir! Ramirez, make a left up here!" Jacobs heard Foley say in the microphone. He could hear the gunshots in the distance as well.

He immediately got the Hunter units ready for the assault.

* * *

I slid over the hood of a pick up truck, running frantically. The Russians were in hot pursuit, all of them. I heard a _shhhooommm _as a bullet whizzled past my head. I was in front of the rest of the squad, straining to hear Foley give me directions on where to run.

"Ramirez, make a left up here!"

Automatically, I turned left down an alley way, running past a dumpster and hopping over a random shopping cart. I was running like hell. Pumping hard and fast. Speed wasn't my strong area, but when you have bullets and Russians chasing you, everything dealing with running is your strong area. I turned into a parkour free runner. It's amazing what you can do when you're motivated the right way.

* * *

"Corporal Charge, get your guys to overwatch on the western side of the perimeter. I don't want anything to catch us slipping." Jacobs ordered the young man. Charge was definitely Sergeant material. The kid might have been young, but he had a level head. He was at least a 7/10. Maybe an 8/10.

80% of the RV force was watching the eastern approach, ready to open fire once 2-1 was safe. The other 20% were keeping the other approaches watched and secure.

Jacobs was out on the ground now, behind a sandbag, ready to fight. He preferred to be out on the dirt and grit, rather than calling the shots. But every unit needed a leader. History proved that. The Captain didn't like for Jacobs to do that, but he didn't give a shit.

"Here they come! Get ready!" Somebody yelled. The sounds were just beyond their line of sight. Jacobs watched the treeline carefully, until he saw the flashes of bright yellow where bullets were flying. They slammed into the defensive line, but were wild shots and mostly missed.

He saw a young guy emerge first. The kid couldn't have been older than 20. He recognized him as the new guy, James. Ramirez had been in the shit from day one, constant firefights for that short time in Afghan, and sent straight to fighting Russians here in America. Jacobs didn't think he was as sharp as Allen was, but the kid was damned good. The rest of the squad emerged behind him. Foley, Dunn, Roger, and Sandler. They had completely disregarded their weapons, preferring for an all out sprint. Their rifles were all slung over their shoulders. Risky, but effective.

"Hold your fire!" Jacobs reminded the defense group. They wanted to get the Russians as close as possible. That was how he liked things to be. Surprise and shock. The enemy troops had no idea that a HQ was set up here. They would run right into it, like some fools. They'd lose just a whole lot of men, just because they were greedy and wanted to catch a few Americans.

2-1 was at the bank now, just as the Russians came out the treeline. Ramirez was first, hopping clean over the sandbag that Jacobs was using for cover. The rest did the same.

There had to be at least 50 of them. Reddish armor. AK47's and other foreign weapons. Yelling in an incoherent language. Then they realized what they were running into, realization spreading across their faces. _Who's running now?_

"Slaughter them!" Jacobs yelled loudly. His ears ringed and throbbed as soon as the hellfire of bullets erupted. They hardly even needed to aim. There wasn't any cover. That was why he chose the bank as the HQ. Open ground from here to the treeline. The Russians were falling and suffering hits. But they returned fire.

Jacobs aimed and fired, tagging them with 5.56mm. Legs were snapped. Arms were broken. Chests were hammered. They went prone, because of the lack of cover. That reduced their chances of getting hit by at least 70%. Prone was an effective maneuver, far more than what you see in movies. You can only see small little humps and muzzle flashes. The muzzle flashes alone were enough to throw people into cover, because you know that they're shooting at you and can kill you. Not only that, but the fact that they are prone eases their minds. It allows them to think better, because they know how hard it is for the enemy to shoot them. And they have a clear line of sight themselves.

War isn't like a video game. Your side isn't the only one that can call in reinforcements and back up and whatnot. Your team isn't the only one who has access to support. It goes 360. All the way around. War isn't fair, but everyone has access to the vital things. And Jacobs knew that. The enemy could be calling in air support right now.

"We need to take them out quick!" Jacobs tapped his earpiece, "Charge, get your team to spread out on the left flank, fast!" Jacobs took a quick look around, keeping his head low to avoid the dangerous rounds being shot at them. "Sgt. Foley, get your squad to keep them suppressed. I want those Russians to keep their heads down." He pointed at the enemy troops to stress his point. The less the enemy could do, the better. The Russians were maneuvering while prone, and Jacobs wanted to stop that.

"You got it!" Foley replied.

Jacobs watched for a few seconds as Sgt. Foley began throwing out orders, then he tapped his earpiece once more, this time with feeling.

"Sgt. Barnes." Barnes was the heavy weapons team leader. The squad that was posted up on the top floor of the building, sporting the new shit and the AT4's. "Engage the enemy troops with the AT4's! I wanna see a fire works display down there."

"Loud and clear, lieutenant." Barnes said calmly.

Lieutenant Jacobs went back to shooting. The rifle recoiled every time he squeezed the trigger, forcing him to fire in single shots. He rested the barrel on the sandbags to improve his accuracy. That was always a good move. It reduced the loose movement of the weapon to nearly 0% while you aimed. He aimed and fired professionally, small puffs of smoke escaping from the tip of the barrel. Shell casings hit the ground, bumping into each other and releasing a small _tink tink _noise.

Some extra firepower was hitting the Russians. In his peripheral vision, he began to see Charge's team approaching from the left side easily enough. They were in a wide combat formation, prone on the concrete ground and exchanging rounds with the Russians. Charge was lead of a rifle team. That was exactly what Jacobs needed. They would be able to pick off the stragglers fairly easy, with the suppression coming from Foley's team. The ones that were closer together should get hit with the rockets.

Jacobs reloaded his weapons, swiftly and quickly through countless times of practice. He slapped the fresh clip in, and went back to work.

A long stream of white smoke trailed through the air, hit the ground where the Russians were, and exploded in a fiery haze. It was a black and orange ball of fire and heat. Anybody in the radius of the blast was dead, period. They'd be incinerated. Several more streaks of grey flew through the air. Total fire superiority.

Jacobs got the fire works display that he was looking for. Excellent work. The rockets slowed down and finally stopped, and Jacobs figured that Barnes' team was out of AT4's.

"Cease fire!" Jacobs peeked over the sandbags and watched carefully. It went quiet really quick somehow. Nothing. No voices, no shooting, no explosions. He swallowed hard. That had been an intense fight, but it wasn't over. Choppers were probably on the way. "Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

I sat in the back seat of the humvee, on full alert until we cleared the red zone and went into the green one. It'd been a long, long day. I was back in the safe area now, at a forward operating base called Noah, just outside of Virginia. But the fight wasn't over, not by a long shot. The talk around FOB Noah was that we were going back in there. We had some lights to turn off before we left building. Not necessarily for an all out counter attack. I'd heard something about a VIP that was going to be needing escort out of there. I figured it was bullshit.

I was still inside our humvee, still inside the back seat, still looking out the window. Dunn sat in the driver seat. These things weren't really meant to be comfortable. They're wide and big on the inside, and you can't exactly let the seats down for a nap. But I didn't give a shit. I could go to sleep anywhere. I rested my head against the window, then I dozed off, and finally went to sleep.

_It was a dream. I've always been able to tell when I'm dreaming, for some strange reason. But this was more like a memory. I'd seen all of this before, a while ago. It was inside of a classroom, back in high school. A history class, I think. I couldn't make out any faces, but I knew it was a memory of something. I sat in the middle of the class, because I didn't like being in front, and you couldn't hear anything in the back. The class had been easy for me, like all the others. We were all quiet, listening to some sort of speech by the teacher. _

_"It takes only a single key event, for something drastic and life changing to happen. That single event can be small or big. It can change the entire course of history..." The teacher droned on. "Someday, you'll all have to make important decisions, like what you want to be when you grow up." It was a female voice, and I recalled, Ms. Hunter. You usually don't see female history teachers._

_"What_ do _you want to be?" She asked the class. She pointed to a random student in the front. He answered the usual, 'i don't know', and she shook her head. __"You're Juniors, you should have your mind made up by now. What about you, James?"_

_Uh oh. The spotlight shifted to me. All eyes on me. The mic passed to me. I glanced around quickly, everyone was eagerly waiting and watching to see what I would say. I'd been slouching down in the chair, so I sat up straight and cleared my throat. "Uhh," I scratched my head, my wild black hair waving around, "I was thinking about being a computer programmer, or engineer, or somethin' like that."_

_It was a lame answer, to the other students in the class, but for the most part, it was the truth. My mind is perfect for doing something technical. Logical, and methodical. The 95 in Advanced Math class proved that. But I wasn't a nerd though. Far from that._

_Ms. Hunter liked my answer. A slight smile spread across her face. "That's not bad, James. Programmers make a lot of money and have cool lives. You might even program the next big thing and become a millionaire."_

__I woke up after that. It felt like I'd been asleep for only a few minutes, but it was actually a few hours.

I sat there and reminisced like an old person for a while. I remember that day. Only about 2 years ago, when I was 17 and still in high school, I was looking forward to going to college and majoring in something. I wasn't as smart as my sister, but we both were planning on going to the same college. That was the plan, at least. Then the next thing I knew, warfare over in the middle east was climbing incredibly. Casualties were getting higher and higher, and our numbers were getting lower and lower. Private Military Companies had been injected into the long Afghan war, feeding the fire. Our allies were doing all they could. Eventually, Jared and I got drafted to the military. He went to the marines, I went to the army.

Some months after that, I signed up for Ranger school. Didn't know what the hell I was getting myself into. I almost got dropped. Almost. Then I realized that I had asked for the Rangers, not the other way around. I was determined to prove myself, and ended up passing. It was classified as Special Forces, but that wasn't the deal. A week after graduation, I got shipped out to Afghanistan, where they put me in as a replacement for some guy named Joseph Allen.

First day over there, we got hit hard. Violent, close range, street to street battles. Terrorists and mercenary's, all of them, fighting us. The city that we were in was attacked heavily by an assault force. The news was talking all about us, how the Rangers were fighting a brutal battle. I earned my place among the Hunter unit as a veteran. They say that if you last more than 24 hours, you're a vet. You meet some cool guys when you're listed in special forces. I met a few foreign guys that were in some task force. There was a guy that everybody called Roach for some reason. I thought it was a stupid nickname. But in the end, I didn't even have time to write Ayla, my sister. I should have. She probably thought I'd been killed in action.

Then, a week after that, Russians attack us out of the blue. Right after they claimed that an American had went berserk and killed some people in an airport. Bullshit, I called it.

America is in the shit, really bad right now. 2 heavy duty wars. Afghan isn't like it used to be. We're not fighting little push overs anymore over there. Plus, the homefront is being hit hard. They immediately sent Hunter to Virginia.

I had no idea where my brother was. Last I heard, they were sent to the western front, out in California. The talk was that western U.S. was hit the hardest. Paratroopers, Special Forces, Navy bombardments, Aerial attacks, the whole nine yards. And Jared was out there in the middle of it.


	4. Chapter 4

**_This is my battlecry..._  
**

**Chapter IV**

**Corporal Jared Ramirez. Anaheim, California.**

Fat raindrops pelted Jared's head and his armor, but he ignored it. It was 1550 hours. Normally, school would be letting out around this time. Normally. He sat in a foxhole next to a FNG private, watching and waiting. It was slightly dark outside due to the dark grey clouds blocking the sun. Hours had passed, and still not a thing from the Russians across the field. Jared didn't like it. The Russians were about half a football field away, at the top of a slope. Both the Russians and the Americans were dug in on tree lines. They were using thick tree branches for extra cover. The dirt was slowly turning into mud, as the marines waited. They couldn't let their guards down, that was a fatal mistake.

"You got any siblings, Jared?" Private Dills whispered to him from the other side of the foxhole. Jared looked at him. The kid was fresh out of boot camp. He wasn't even James' age. Jason Dills was his name. Jason had slightly red hair and freckles and a big toothy grin. No facial hair, whatsoever, of course. And he had big green eyes. Jason was a little more on the short side, rather than tall.

"Why?" Jared asked, returning his attention to the slick, grassy slop that led up to the Russians.

"Just wondering."

"I've a younger sister and brother. My brother is in the army, he's a ranger." Jared told Dills. Jason liked to talk too much.

"How is he?" Dills asked, wiping mud off of his face. A slick, dark greenish color spread across his jar, trailing behind his hand.

"He's in Virginia, last I heard." Jared told him.

"Dude, isn't Virginia like, taken by now? They still have Rangers there? Damn. Hope he's okay." Dills told him, slight concern in his voice.

"It can't be worse than it is over here. He'll be all right." Jared assured him. He wasn't really worried about James like that. Worrying would be a liability. It was a luxury that he couldn't afford. Not in times of war.

The marines had been locked in a stale mate with the Russians for hours. They were trying to get out of Anaheim, but the Russians didn't want that to happen. Jared's platoon had gathered a bunch of civilians that were slowing them down. They needed to get those people out of the city and safe, but that wouldn't happen as long as that force was out there waiting for them.

And the Russians could out wait them. It was almost like a game of chess, and it was the marines' turn. Both sides were sitting tight, but it was the marines who needed to move. Women and children were behind the lines, waiting to get out of Anaheim. It was a bad omen for Jared. He'd been getting ready to buy tickets for him and James to see a supercross season opener in Anaheim. That wouldn't be happening now.

Jared had taken off his heavy back pack. They wouldn't be moving any time soon. He opened it up and pulled out an energy bar, hazelnut flavor. He needed the energy, and he was hungry as hell. Win - win situation. Jared unwrapped the bar about halfway and bit into it. It was crunchy and slightly sweet, and filled with nuts and other stuff he didn't care for. He munched on a big chunk of it, grinding it and swallowing it. Jared took several more large chunks out of it.

"Dude, got ne' more of that?" Dills asked him. Jared tossed him the energy bar, and then reached for his helmet, which was sitting upside down on top of the fox hole.

Jared had been collecting rain water for the past hour and a half. Survival technique that he learned early on. He had a canteen filled with water, but he needed to save that for as long as possible. That was how things worked out on the front lines. You had to get creative.

He laid his rifle down and picked up the helmet with both hands, bringing it to his lips. The water wasn't ice cold, but it had to have been some of the best water he'd ever tasted. The cool liquid flooded his mouth and he savored every second of it. _"Ahhhh," that's good water._ Jared sat the helmet back up on top, in the same position it had been in earlier. The helmet was about halfway full, rather than all the way filled like it had been.

It was quiet, other than the constant chewing of Jason as he munched down the rest of the energy bar.

Jared heard footsteps approaching from the right, softly. He turned his attention to the noise, and saw Lieutenant Dan approaching. Dan was a war veteran and Jared looked up to him. Dan had a wife and several kids, back home, wherever that was.

The lieutenant slid into the hole next to Jared and Dills.

"We're gonna smoke it up, then were gonna charge those bastards." Both Jared and Dills looked closely at lieutenant Dan. He looked back at them. "We got no choice... We'll surprise them, catch them slipping. We outnumber their forces. 1st and 2nd squads are going to hang back and fire over our heads until we're almost all the way up the rise. That'll get the Russians to thinking that we're bluffing the charge. They'll think we're trying to draw them out in the open, and in response, they'll decide to stay back and wait for us to stop shooting. As soon as 1st and 2nd squads _do _stop shooting, they'll figure that we called it off. Which is exactly what I want them to figure. We'll be up and at those fuckers. 1st and 2nd will follow us up the hill once we get about 75% of the way. I'll throw red smoke to let them know when." Lieutenant Dan's black eyes looked at both of them, making sure they understood what was going to happen.

"It all looks good on paper, but it _won't _work out according to plan. There will be casualties for us." Dan reminded us. He asked us if we had any questions, then he climbed back out of the foxhole. He turned back to us before he left. "We're up and over once the smoke goes up. Get ready, and move quiet." Then, Dan left.

Dills was scared. Jared could tell easily.

Jared picked his helmet back up from the top of the foxhole. He drank some more of the rain water, letting it flow into his mouth and down the side of his cheeks. Then he sat the helmet on his head, the rest of the water running down his face and neck. He ignored it, and waited for the signal. Jared and Jason were in 4th squad, with several other guys. They'd be going in on the first charge. Like a miniature D-Day.

* * *

Jared spat out a piece of chewing gum. All of the flavor was gone. The piece of gum was a useless annoyance in his mouth. _Fix bayonets... _He twirled the deadly blade in his fingers. It was sharp and built for all-purpose knife usage. You could use it as a bayonet, or as a standard knife. He put it on the barrel of his M16.

The charge is the oldest and most famous military tactical move, ever. It's been in use ever since war has raged on earth. The 300 spartans were charged by a much larger army. The 54th Massachusetts charged Fort Wagner. The Confederate Army had charged during the Battle of Gettysburg. It's the best shock attack, and the worst at the same time. Casualties are usually staggering.

There it was. Over ten smoke grenades flew out into the open, all at the same time. Dills climbed up in the foxhole, he was about to run.

"No, wait! Wait for the smoke!" Jared had to tell him. The kid was jumpy. Fresh out of the School of Infantry. Ready to see some action. Afraid to see some action. All at the same time.

White puffs slowly fanned out, spreading and getting wide and big. The white mist got larger and larger, until they couldn't even see the tops of the trees on the other side of the open plain. Time to go.

Jared pulled himself out of the foxhole, just as 1st and 2nd squad began shooting. The bullets flashed and flew violently at the Russians. Dills followed behind Jared. Over 40 marines were moving up the hill, fast. The sounds of the bullets were drowning out the sound of their footsteps. Jared ran beside Dills, and they ran beside the rest of the assault force.

In the corner of his eye, Jared saw lieutenant Dan toss another smoke. The signal for the second wave. We all entered the white smoke, and Jared gripped his weapon tighter. The Russians were shooting into it, trying to return fire to 1st and 2nd squad. Their bullets were volatile and dangerous. Several rounds came close to hitting him. Three of the marines out front fell to the ground. The marines exited the smoke, right in front of the Russians.

"Get 'em!" Jared heard lieutenant Dan yell.

The Russians had a trenchline set up, along with stray foxholes. Jared leaped down into the trenches, right on top of one of them, and stuck the Russian with his bayonet. It went smoothly into the chest of his target. Blood rushed out of the wound, and Jared fired his M16 once, while the blade was stuck in the enemy soldier. Red fluid splattered onto Jared's hands. He pulled his weapon out.

Jared turned to the right and saw a Russian machine gunner shooting into the marines' lines. He aimed his M16, the barrel swaying slightly because of the bayonet, and shot. The bullets ruptured into the enemy soldier, hitting him in his arms, legs, and the neck. That was a kill right there. The machine gun stopped shooting, as the Russian stopped living. Jared heard yelling behind him.

A Russian soldier was running right at him, mud flying up from the ground, with a bayonet attached to his weapon. Jared had turned at the last second. He parried the blade to the side. The Russian swiped it back the opposite way, aiming for Jared's head. He ducked under it, feeling the blade fly swiftly where his head was a split second ago. As soon as he stood back to his full height, the Russian was bringing the bayonet back in a downward arc, coming from above.

Jared flattened his M16 out horizontally and blocked the attacked, the blade hitting the side of his weapon. He then shoved upwards, throwing the bayonet out of the way and unbalancing the Russian. No time to waste.

Jared kicked the Russian in the lower stomach, hard. Mud flew up from the ground wildly as the Russian hit the ground. Jared fell down with his bayonet, aiming right for the heart area.

"Ah!" Jared yelled with it, driving the blade home, as hard as he can. The Russian stopped moving.

Three kills, and he was still in the same spot. Jared took a deep breathe. There was a right turn in the trench up ahead. Like an alleyway. Jared got up and ran for it.

As he turned, he could see several enemy troops in the trench, and a marine lying on the ground, about to be killed. It was the lieutenant. _No! _A Russian was aiming a pistol, right at his head. Jared fired from the hip, not even trying to be precise. He shot the one that was going to kill lieutenant Dan, and the wild shots hit the side of the wall. The Russian clutched his side where the bullet hit, dropping the pistol. Jared aimed this time. He shot him in the chest 4 times. Center - mass.

The other Russian soldiers shot at him, though. Jared got hit several times, then he went down. He stumbled backwards, then collapsed on the cold, wet, muddy ground, hard. The slick mud caked his face. Jared's vision got blurry and black dots started popping up. He put his hands on the wounds. Blood was seeping up through his armor and flowed through his fingers and over his hands. He coughed, and red blood spattered out of his mouth, landing on his neck and chin.

A marine ran up beside him and knelt down next to him. It was Dills. "Medic! Medic!" Dills called out, yelling loudly. Jared could barely hear him for some reason. A corpsman came, moving fast. The corpsman knelt down, just like Dills, trying to patch up the wound and stopped the bleeding. Jared coughed again, this time worse than the last.

He blacked out. Swirling into the dark abyss._  
_


	5. Chapter 5

**This is the final chapter in this mini story. I'll be starting up a sequel soon. **

_**Mind the Gap...**_

**Chapter V**

I was sitting in the back seat of the humvee, on the left side, checking and rechecking my SCAR. The humvee was bumping up and down slightly, every time we hit a rock or something on the road. There were 4 humvees in total, a squad for each one. 5 people for each squad. 20 rangers in total. All of us were heading back into the deep of Virginia for several objectives. Civilian rescue, VIP escort, asset retrieval, you name it. We had a grocery list to clear before we left Virginia again. About a day and a half had passed since our convoy left out of it the first time. Our Hunter unit had been given some rest and hot food, before they sent us back into the pit of Virginia.

Two of the greenish colored humvees were bobbing up and down ahead of us on a straight road through a long neighborhood, where both sides of the road were lined with houses. That made us third, out of the 4 humvees. We were going down some pretty tight roads, hanging a left or a right every now and then. Me, Roger, and Sandler were on rotate with the mini gun. Every while and a half, someone would replace someone else on the minigun. I was going to be up next. Being on the gun was a scary feeling. It made you feel vulnerable and open, making you uneasy and highly alert. I'd qualified expert with the humvee gun back in training, in every simulation. Whether it was high speed driving, or under a lot of pressure, or just straight up shooting moving targets, I had always hit expert.

We turned right down another road, moving slowly. The road was wider and more spacey than the last one we were on, so the single file line broke apart. Our humvee, and the one in front moved to the left hand side of the road. The other two stuck to the right. There were several gas stations, a few general stores, and some restaurants. Parking lots were empty, except for the occasional abandoned car, here and there. The convoy continued down the street, getting closer to our destination.

"Incoming!" Someone yelled from the lead humvee. I went alert instantly, automatically bringing the SCAR up to aim and shoot anything I saw.

A rocket streamed out of nowhere, coming from a building on the starboard side of the convoy. It flew over one of the humvees and hit the ground in the center of the formation. The explosion was loud and deafening, shaking our humvee violently. The concussion of the blast threw me into the door of the humvee, hard. My ears were ringing, and everything sounded as if it were muffled and distant. My vision blurred slightly, and then I realized that our humvee was tipping over. The side that I was on would hit the ground. I raised my gloved hands up to cushion the landing, but it did nothing to help. We hit. Hard. Rough. My head jerked violently and hit the concrete street, causing me to black out even though I had the helmet on.

* * *

A humvee is a hard vehicle to topple. They are designed to counter most things that could flip them on their side. Humvees are coated with heavy duty armor, built to withstand a barrage from small arms fire, like rifles and machine guns. On top of that, the humvees are 'all - purpose' built, for offensive and defensive maneuvering alike. The front and rear bumpers are designed to be crash - proof, allowing the driver to slam into enemy barricades and road blocks and any other things that you could think of. They could ride over any smaller vehicles, like a monster truck, and crush them.

On the reverse side, humvees are some of the safest vehicles to be sitting in, no matter the occasion. The windows are extremely durable and for the most part, bullet proof. The doors and sides have extra armor plating, which makes sense. The reason why, is because majority of the time, if a squad comes under fire while they're inside one, they'll turn the humvee to the side, giving them the maximum amount of cover when they disembark. It would be stupid to just have the humvee directly facing the enemy, if you planned on hopping out and providing extra fire support for the gunner of the humvee.

It all looks good on paper, but when the shit gets real, all of that gets thrown out the window.

* * *

I fought to regain my vision as I struggled around on the inside of the overturned humvee. Gunshots were running wild, peppering the ground right outside the door of the humvee. The vehicle was completely turned over, not just on its side. I was laying on my stomach, facing out the window of it, and I could see U.S. military boots, as the guys in my squad were taking cover on the humvee. That meant that the enemy was behind me. My SCAR was laying outside on the ground, right outside the window, right where I was looking. My lip was busted and a cut ran down the left side of my face. I could feel dried blood on the wound.

"Yo," Somebody outside the humvee yelled over the loud gunfighting, " I think James is dead!" At first I thought it was Sandler who said that, but at the same time, I was hearing the rattling of his M249. Sandler rarely spoke when he was shooting.

I began to crawl out of the humvee, going through the window that was right in front of my. My bones ached and it felt like I'd been beaten. Brightness filled my vision for a few seconds as I emerged, the sun boring down onto me. I grunted with the effort it took to haul myself out of the wreckage, and bullets were flying over my head, so I had to keep low. As I got all the way out, I scanned my surroundings and picked up my SCAR.

The other humvees had disembarked and were engaging the Russians that were dug in inside the buildings. We'd taken the brunt of the blow from that RPG round. The entire line of buildings were flashing where the Russians were shooting from. Plenty of them. Enough to go around. There was some extra cover on the ground, mainly abandoned cars and trucks.

"Fire and maneuver! Get closer!" Sgt. Foley yelled. He was right. We'd do no good way back here. The Russians were too well dug - in for that non sense.

I took cover on the far right of the flipped humvee, keeping my head low and scanning the enemy walls. A flank to the right would be effective. We needed to spread out our lines, putting some space in our numbers. That would limit the suppression that the Russians could throw at us. In turn, we'd gain the upper hand and have fire superiority. Which was the last thing that they'd want U.S. Army Rangers to have.

The SCAR jerked as I shot round after round into the row of buildings. I wasn't really trying to hit anyone, but I wanted to place my shots carefully. Dust and debris broke off of the two story bank that some of the enemy were dug in to. The constant muzzle flashes faltered, and I broke off in a low sprint, heading for a leftover pick up truck. Bullets pinged off of the ground behind me, tracing my path. The ground was being hammered with wild shots. I slid into cover on the driver side of the truck, like I was sliding for home base in baseball.

I was a bit closer now, but I still couldn't make out any targets. I needed to get closer.

Another rocket flew from an office building. The grey-ish trail of smoke was right on it's tail. It hit the ground near one of the parked humvees. The explosion was a brilliant orange and yellow fireball, tossing dirt and concrete everywhere. Black smoke rose and spread.

I tracked the trail of the rocket to a window on the far side of the building. That was where the RPG rounds were coming from. But I still couldn't get a clear shot, not from this distance. I peeked from behind the truck when I had time to breathe, and took a snapshot of the ground in front of me, then went back into cover. I ran calculations and traced paths using the picture of the combat grounds in my head, posting the snapshot firmly on a canvas in my mind.

I drew a line from the backside of the truck to a white van sitting dormant. Too much running out in the open. I would get close, but I wouldn't make it. They'd almost gotten me when I ran from the humvee to the truck that I'm behind now. Zigzagging it would be too slow, and ineffective anyway.

No go.

I ripped that copy of the snapshot off of the canvas in my mind, and replaced it with a clean replica. I drew a red line from the truck to the windows in the nearest building, representing gun fire. I estimated that after 7 rapid fire rounds, they would lower their heads. It would be about 3 and a half seconds before they risked looking up again. It would take another second for them to register my movement and shoot, from the truck to a tossed over dumpster.

Then, I drew a yellow line, running from the front of the truck, to the designated dumpster. I could make that run in about 6 seconds. I concluded that it would take 4 and a half seconds before I was fired upon again. That left a second and a half window of time that I'd be running under fire. It takes time to adjust your aim and hit a moving target. I wasn't much for speed and running, but I wasn't slow. There was a 39.7% chance that I would get hit. Fair enough. You're lucky if you can get that number below 40. Even if it was barely below 40. You can't get perfect in war. So I did away with the 'mind canvas' and saved that snapshot in a file and stored it away, ready to be used again if needed.

I aimed and fired, following the same procedure that I'd set up on the painting in my mind. I kept my weapons in single shot mode, so I feathered the trigger seven times exactly. The intense stopping power shattered the bricked wall and cracked it. The firing there stopped, and I ran full speed, pounding my way to the dumpster.

I'd set the stop watch in my head to six seconds, and right now it was telling me that I was 4 seconds running. Half a second later, while I was still sprinting, gunfire erupted from the windows above. Chunks of concrete and dust and pieces began flying up from the ground, beneath me, as the bullets slammed downwards. I could feel the heat from the rounds. I slid behind the dumpster, just like I'd done before, and smacked against the side of it. As soon as I did, the stop watch in my head pinged, and I reset the timer and left it on standby, ready to be used again.

The RPG fired again. I didn't see it, but I heard the sound of it clearly. The ground lit up right by a pair of guys from Hunter 2-3. Concussion from the blast caused both of them to get airborne. They landed at least 5 yards away from the explosion. That was a deadly blast. I had no idea if they were okay. Their humvee rocked on its side and shook. The constant rattle of the minigun was silent for a spell. I glanced across the field and saw Foley and Roger moving up. Dunn was rushing to the two guys who'd been hit by the RPG.

The dumpster was being rattled by bullets. The Russians still had fire superiority here. I needed to neutralize that guy with the rockets, fast. As long as he was up and at it, we'd be sitting ducks. He could tear away any piece of cover. Hell, he could blow us up if he caught us slipping. On top of that, he'd already disabled two of our humvees. As a matter of fact, he'd almost disabled _me. _

While I waited for some breathing room to open up, I ran an estimation through my mind. I approximated about 10 seconds had passed while I was painting on my canvas. It took another second and a half for me to suppress the Russians in the windows closest to me. 6 seconds after that, I'd slid behind the dumpster. The total amount of time elapsed while I was still sitting here was another 10 seconds... 11... 12. In total, I rounded it off to 30 seconds. He'd shot that last RPG 7 seconds ago. So I concluded that the guy fired somewhere around every 23 seconds. That 23 seconds was now down to 16, so I set the timer on the stop watch in my head to 15. That would give me the second that I'd need to aim and fire.

I peeked around the side of the dumpster for a split second to assure myself that I knew where the rocket had come from. I was well within range now. One shot was all that I needed, but I wasn't that good of a soldier. So I took the Single Shot mode off and set the SCAR to full auto. Back in training, I'd taught myself the amount of time that I'd need to hold the trigger in order to fire off 5 automatic shots. With these advanced SCARs, I could do it in one second, flat. That meant that the SCAR could shoot 30 rounds in 6 seconds. But I didn't need 30 rounds. I didn't even need five. I would fire three.

Twenty goes into 100 five times. .20 goes into 1.00 five times. So I built a clone of the stop watch in my head, then I set it up. This one would tick for 3/5's of a second. It would start the moment I fired my first bullet.

I checked the timer on the first stopwatch. 3 seconds to go. I made note of that and saved it in a file in my mind. So I crawled over to the left side of the dumpster, where I'd get the clearest line of sight. The shooting from the Russians was focused elsewhere. From my young days as a toddler, growing up, I've always been ambidextrous. So I switched the SCAR to my left side, that way I could lean out from behind the dumpster and get as comfortable as I was gonna get, without exposing too much.

The Russian leaned out the window with an RPG on his shoulder, getting himself ready to shoot. Unfortunately for him, I was already prepared to fire. I shot the SCAR like I've always done in the recent past. The rifle bucked slightly three times, until the cloned stop watch pinged. Three hits. Blood splattered wildly, pasting the walls of the building. One hit on his left arm, one on his neck, and another in the center of his chest. The unbalanced weight of his body caused him to fall out of the window and plummet to the ground, in a mist of his own red blood.

As I went back behind the dumpster, I deleted the cloned stop watch from my mind. It wasn't needed anymore. I waited a few beats, switching my weapon back to single shot and doing a mental check, then I aimed again. While I'd been shooting at the RPG guy, I'd been taking mental snapshots of my peripheral vision. There were about 4 targets posted up at a large office window. I figured that the window must've been in the room where the boss worked. The targets were positioned exactly how my snapshots were a few seconds ago. My earlier conclusion proved to be accurate. _A flank to the right would be effective._

__This time, I fired controlled single shots, hyper accurate. I nailed every one of them. Arms were torn, heads snapped back, blood spewed. I didn't know if I had actually killed all of them, but I knew for sure that they were out for the count. We won't be hearing from them anymore.

I ducked back below the dumpster and reloaded my weapon. The ammo counter that I'd set up in my mind was running low. It refilled as I slid another clip in. I thought for a second. It should be time to storm the buildings. I peeked around the right side of the dumpster, and saw Hunter 2-2 stacking up on one of the doors. Sgt. Foley, Roger, and Sandler were moving into position on another one. By them being there, it meant that we had achieved fire superiority. I stood up and sprinted with my head low.

* * *

We stacked up. Two on the right, two on the left. In my case, I was on the left, right behind Roger. Foley and Sandler were on the opposite side.

"Go!" Sgt. Foley commanded. Roger shot the door twice in two different places, kicked it hard, and then got his back up against the wall. I stepped around him, going through the door first. Breaching and clearing isn't anything like the movies and games. One person doesn't just drop everybody in the room by himself. My rifle swept through the room, and I highlighted targets. Then, I stepped to the left to allow space for everyone else to file in. At the same time, I was busy shooting an enemy rifleman. I shot him 4 times. He toppled when I hit him in the knee, and the other rounds slapped him in the chest. He fell over, neutralized.

I moved swiftly now. Every other enemy target in this first room was dead, period. My eye never left the iron sights. There was a door leading to another room, filled with desks and chairs. I stepped into that room, scanning. Nothing.

"Clear!" I called out over my shoulder. There were two more clears, and then,

"Floor cleared!" Sgt. Foley yelled. "We're takin' the stairs." He told us.

"Ah man, I hate stairs.." Sandler said.

We regrouped at the base of a flight of stairs and got into formation. We could hear the enemy moving around up top. I counted 16 stairs in total. At the top was a door way and I could see shadows moving about.

"Let's get up their and kill those bastards." I heard Sandler whisper. There were several quick and tight hand signals.

"Flash out!" Roger whispered, and he tossed it up the stairs and into the next floor. There was a muffled thump and a flash, then we moved up the stairway. I was in front again, like usual. My eye was still in the iron sights, never leaving them. We did a lot of training involving stairs. All the way back to before I was even in basic, getting myself ready. It paid off.

I entered into the next floor, sweeping my aim through the room just as I'd done down below. I counted 12 targets. That was a lot, but you still have to factor in the flashbang that Roger threw. They couldn't see shit. I stepped to the side, like I did downstairs. I aimed at a target, expert precision, and shot a round clean through his head. Kill confirmed. Without hesitating, my aim snapped onto another target. My rifle discharged several times, tagging the enemy multiple times in the chest and neck area. He stumbled backwards and tripped over a tossed aside chair, falling and dying at the same time.

My legs got to moving again. All targets were down in room one. This floor had office cubicles everywhere. That was a dangerous snag. They could be hiding in them, which meant that we'd have to find them. I went left, moving fast and with purpose. My heart was drumming. The SCAR was moving from left to right, frantically, as I moved quickly down a long aisle of cubicles. Nothing.

* * *

After clearing a few more floors, we'd finally gotten all of the Russians. Hunter 2-2 had gotten several prisoners in their building. We'd gotten nothing but a bunch of dead bodies. I'd taken a round to the shoulder on the top floor, and Dunn ended up having to patch me up. It hurt like hell.

Right now, it was late evening and I was finishing up a letter that I was going to send to my sister. I told her about today, but left out the details. I just mentioned that our unit got hit but we managed to win and push the Russians back further. I told her that I was doing just fine and that this war would be over in no time. That wasn't really true, but it was critical that morale stayed up. What would she think if I told her that Virginia was pretty much lost and that we were getting driven back? I didn't tell her that I'd been shot. Then I asked her how Jared was doing.

Today had been a long, long day. We were in no shape to move. Hunter 2-3 had gotten a KIA from the RPG. We also had several guys wounded, including me, but I would be back to full health soon. I felt wounded on the inside. I'd racked up a high body count today. More lives were taken by me. I felt tired and really wanted some sleep. I didn't even feel like thinking, due to a ridiculous head ache.

This time, I was on the left side in the back seat of Hunter 2-2's humvee. Everyone else was out and chatting and stuff. I just felt like getting some rest.

"Hey James." Roger opened the door on the right side of the humvee and slipped in.

"W'sup man?" I asked him. He shrugged, lighting a cigarette and bringing it to his lips.

"Hey, you want a smoke?" He asked. He held out a carton of cigarettes, one of them sticking out.

"Nah i'm straight dude." I didn't smoke. Maybe it was because off all those warnings back when I was a kid. Maybe it was because I knew all of the dangers from smoking. Maybe it was because I looked at smoking as a pointless and harmful habit. I dunno. Jared and Ayla don't smoke either. It's just in that Ramirez blood I guess.

"Well, we're going to be moving out again at 0400. There are some civilians we have to evacuate, then we got a HVT. And after that, I heard they're thinking about sending us up to D.C." He told me. I looked at him when he said that.

"What's up with D.C.?"

"We don't even own D.C. anymore man. Hell, the Russians have the White House as their HQ. We're going in to take it back."


End file.
